


Sacrament

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blasphemy, Blood, Blood and Injury, Bloodplay, Catholic School, Dark, Demons, M/M, Offscreen Deaths, Offscreen Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:52:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're lovely when you're terrified," it says idly, voice wet before it swallows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrament

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahaha! Here's a thing nobody wanted!
> 
> IDEK, I couldn't get [this photoset](http://bewaretheides315.tumblr.com/post/63047013898/heres-a-thing-literally-no-one-wanted-because) out of my head and it turned into something darker than I had originally planned. I'M SO SORRY, WORLD.
> 
> Note - despite the rape/non-con tag, nothing more involved than kissing happens in this fic.
> 
> PS- Everything I know about Catholicism (and church in general) is gleaned from pop culture. Apologies if I've badly crewed anything up.

Silence rings through Chris' head like a bell-strike, echoing through the vertebrae tucked close to the base of his skull and the tiny, fine bones of his ear. He was supposed to learn the names of those two semesters ago but he can't think of them now. Can't really think of anything. Brain all novocained up on the screaming that stopped minutes ago. 

It- He? Everything Chris can see tells him it's a man; shadowed jaw where dark whiskers lurk just beneath a thin layer of pale, smooth-shaven skin, the oil-slick of black on top of its head combed sleek with brill cream, not a hair out of place, and shiny as the predator's eyes slinking around behind faintly tinted glasses; the broad cut of its shoulders that tapers down to a slimmer waist, hips. 

That should have been a clue. Real priests don't look like that, don't draw the eye like magnet to lodestone with the sleek lines of their bodies, the illicit suggestion of muscle hiding under crisp black. He should have known that it meant something. He'd been too busy looking. 

Now it's looking back. 

The baptistery is darker than the rest of the chapel, partially closed off from the nave by a semi-circle of stone and a wooden railing. Darker than it should be, without the light spilling in from the main room. What it did to the lights he’s got no clue, but they’re definitely out, candles and electrics. An endless sea of gloom creeping in around Chris’ little moonlit island, like all of the thing standing in front of Chris is sucking all of the light into itself, same as it's sucking the blood off its fingers. 

"You're lovely when you're terrified," it says idly, voice wet before it swallows. Too pink for the greyscale surroundings, the creature's tongue darts out, paints itself red over and over again with dainty swipes at its fingers like a cat Chris' aunt used to have. Stupid thing used to attack Chris every chance it got. 

The man-creature- demon? That would make sense. In as much as sense is still a thing that exists. It's other hand is on the font, fingertips playing at the surface of the water. Somehow Chris expects its flesh to smoke and singe, but it just works the water along the pads of its fingers, balls them together only to flick them out again, scattering droplets that rain cold across Chris' face. 

He flinches. Turns automatically to wipe his cheek against his shoulder only to remember a moment too late that he's still bleeding from it. With an effort he manages to keep himself from flexing his arm against the stinging pull of torn skin, but he can't quite bite off the hiss that leaks out from between his teeth. 

The demon is smiling. 

"Little lost lamb." It takes a step closer, again as Chris tries to shrink back further against the wall. The idea of unstoppable forces and immovable objects has never been so stomach-churningly real. "What's your name?"

Long fingers stretch across the distance between them , close enough to smell the iron tang on them before the survival instincts that sent Chris scrambling in here in the first place slam into him like a bullet to the brain. 

No tactics, no skill, just pure, vicious energy, Chris strike out with his arms, kicks and clambers, trying to get his legs under him. Probably the craziest damn thing he’s ever done because he saw all the good running did for the others, but there’s a wild animal in his skin and it knows he’s got- he’s got to-

To make it all of six inches before that hand is fisted vice-tight in his hair. It drags him in and down like he weighs about an ounce until his knees jar against the flagstones, a closed circuit of screaming nerves between them and the top of his head. His forearm throbs where it made contact with the demon's hand, bruised or maybe broken, he can't even tell; not with his shoulder burning like someone stuck a soldering iron in it and his heart beating so hard at the cage of his ribs he’s sure it’s going to splinter them into a million pieces and come spitting out the front of his chest.  

His hands are braced against the demon's thighs, the only thing keeping his face from pressing right up against its body. Underneath the starchy cotton it's searing hot, warmth soaking into Chris' fingers and making his palms sweat. The smell of incense and gore and summer rain curls around him, invades his senses; burrowing into his pores, coating the roof of his mouth, molasses-thick, with the jagged, noisy gulps of air he’s taking in. 

"What's your name, my penitent boy?" it purrs, velvet sheath over a scalpel edge. 

A twist of its fingers guillotines Chris’ next breath, draws the sound of his own name weak and pitiful and shocking to his own ears tumbling from his throat. 

The demon repeats it, scraping the syllables raw around the point of a long canine tooth. 

"Christopher. Bearer of Christ." Its thumb slides past Chris' hairline, circles misleadingly gentle over the thudding pulse at his temple. "Would you like to live, Christopher?" 

Temperature shock, or maybe just real-deal medical-type shock, Chris can't suppress a shiver at the feel of that thumb tracing brand-hot down the side of his face, hooking on the bump of his Adam's apple as the rest of the demon's hand palms his neck.

Swallowing convulsively against the taste of bile clawing its way up the back of his throat - he's not particularly eager to find out what happens if you puke on the shoes of something that can wipe out an entire student body plus two priests and assorted teaching staff - Chris nods cautiously. Rasps out a craggy, "Yes," when the pressure against his throat increases. 

A curve too feral to be called a smile splits the demon's mouth.

Dropping away from Chris' neck, the demon's hand wind around the length of his tie instead, the knot pulling tight against his windpipe before he gets the message to fumble unsteadily to his feet. 

"Very obedient, Christopher," it says. Praises, even, going by the stroke of a hand over the side of his face again, long fingers lingering at the itchy patch where his own blood has dried along his jaw. "I like that. In fact, I like you so much, I'm going to make you deal." 

The demon isn't all that much taller than him, Chris realizes in a flash of inanity he's pretty sure is some kind of precursor to a psychotic break. If he straightened up a little they'd be almost the same size, although the way his shoulder pulses with pain just from thinking about it is enough to discourage him from giving it a shot. Not that there’s any point pretending that size matters here. A decade and half hunched over a Bible’s more than enough to recognize absolute power when it’s smirking back at him.

Either the demon wasn't expecting him to answer or it just doesn't care.

They’ve got to be breaking several laws of physics to be sharing as much space as they are right now, every inch of Chris’ skin flushed hot, sweat prickling at the dip of his spine and pasting his hair to his forehead.

This close its scent is stronger, complex and penetratingly simple, like a church and an abattoir had a baby and left it to be raised by wolves. 

It’s toying with Chris' bottom lip between two fingers, all the casual certainty in the world that Chris isn’t going to do a thing stop it from dragging the swell down to expose his teeth or smearing the chapped give damp with his own spit. 

Without even thinking about it, Chris' tongue sweeps along after the brush of contact. He's never regretted that habit as much as he does when the sharp, tinny flavor of leftover blood bursts across his tastebuds. 

Behind its glasses, the demon's eyes are heavy lidded, too bright for something that's not supposed to have a soul. It tilts its head to the side, insinuating itself into the delusion Chris had about room to breathe.

"Your life for a kiss," it murmurs against his still-tacky lips, and the steam-burn heat of it is finally enough to knock Chris back a step. Half a step. As far as he can get with it still using his tie for a leash. 

It prowls right along after every skittish move Chris makes, feet stumbling as much as his heart, until he's pressed flat to the wall again, caged by the blazing heat of its body. "I'm going easy on you, really. You should be grateful. I've made people do much worse for much less."

The slice of its smile cuddles up with the corner of Chris' mouth, nose rubbing a parody of affection along his cheek like there's any way it can't feel every muscle in Chris' body trembling like a plucked string. Like it likes that too. 

The insides of its lips snag wetly against Chris' skin when it hisses, "Make it good. It's the kiss of your life," and then just hovers there, just shy of actually doing it - _just fucking do it_ \- like it's waiting for something, like it exp-

Like it expects Chris to do it. 

Oh god, it's dumb, it's the most idiotic thing in the whole world that after everything that's happened, after the sounds of flesh tearing and the feel of fangs ripping at his skin and the scarlet that's going to be dyed onto Chris retinas until the end of his days, even if that happens to be tonight,, this is the thing that makes his knees pack it in. 

With unnatural ease, the demon takes his weight, kicking his limp legs apart to slip between them so they’re molded in a long, sweltering line. The movement bangs Chris shoulder against the wall, brutal pain that spikes white-hot through his abdomen, freezing adrenalin threading his veins in its wake. The air in his lungs feels like wet concrete, thick and cold, with odd, sharp bits that tear into him unpredictably, but he can hear himself gasping in big heaving mouthfuls of it anyway.

He's going to be sick, he's absolutely going to be sick, watery saliva flooding in under his tongue and the roiling black twist of stomach acid trying to climb his esophagus, but fuck it, _fuck it._

There's nothing coordinated about the way Chris surges to close the distance between his mouth and the demon's, let alone in the bruising mash of lips and clacking teeth that follows. 

Sickly familiar, the taste of blood drapes itself across his tongue and he can't tell whether he's the one bleeding or if that's just how the demon tastes or if it's just that the whole world has turned to blood around him because it sure as hell feels that way; in over his head in an ocean full of it, getting exactly the wrong kind of mouth-to-mouth.

The demon's glasses dig into the bridge of his nose, still nothing on the wickedly sharp points of its fangs - not even a distant cousin to something he could pretend are human teeth. Its hands are on his waist, shoving his shirt up out of the way to press against jumping muscle and skin. 

He's pinned to the wall by its hips, something hard that he half hopes is and half prays isn't its dick digging into the crease of his thigh.

His tongue is in its mouth even though he can't remember putting it there, letting it suck on him like it had its own fingers, and the pull of it is… strange. An electric sizzle that builds in on itself, curling around his nerves tighter as the sensation concentrates, distills into a panic-laced cocktail of greasy fear and something that feels a lot like the ten seconds before he blows it when he’s jacking off, only stretched out, endless and razorwire thin.

He's panting by the time it sets him free. Doesn't go far, just wipes its mouth clean on his cheek, scalding tongue wriggling at the flaky patch of dried blood before it hums thoughtfully and deems him, "Passable."

This time it ducks away enough that Chris can see when it brings its thumb up to its mouth and pushes the pad of it against the point of a fang. 

Blood wells dark around the puncture, aggressively red in a way Chris wouldn't have expected if he'd bothered to expect anything at all. There's a skid of it still on the tip of the demon's canine, weirdly hypnotic enough that some renegade part of Chris brain considers licking it just to see what it would taste like. That lasts for all of a second before Chris attention is forcefully narrowed down to the blistering, incandescent pain in his shoulder wound and the thumb the demon just jammed inside it. 

He thinks he's screaming. That seems logical. Inevitable, really. Screaming. He can't hear it, though. Maybe he's maxed out his quota for the night. Maybe he went fucking deaf. Spontaneous, pain-induced deafness.

Maybe he’s actually unconscious and the part where the demon says, "Noisy too. This is going to be fun," is all the product of his traumatized psyche.

He seriously doubts he’s that lucky.

It’s been a while since Chris got really fucked-out-of-his-mind high – since he was home for Christmas and Katie’s’ friends brought over that balls-out amazing weed –but that’s sort of what he feels like by the time the demon takes its hand off of his abused flesh wound. Which actually doesn’t feel all that abused, actually.

Doesn’t really look it either, when the demon grabs at the tiny puncture marks in Chris’ shirt and rends them apart to reveal a blue-black bruise the size of a softball and pristine, whole skin.

The room blurs like smudged ink as Chris turns his head, but after a couple of deep breaths it resolves. The demon’s still dominating his view, eyes searching Chris’ face critically, nodding to himself after a long second.

And then he’s turning around and leaving. But not, because Chris is following him. Or, not- not following. It still has his tie in its hand. So he’s being led. Against his will and with great resistance, he’s sure. Probably. Everything is very swooshy.

"You said…" he blurts, because he remembers that part. There was a deal. There was a deal and he totally made good on his end.

The demon quirks a look at him over its shoulder – wow, it has really phenomenal eyebrows – and sounds no little bit condescending when it says, "That I'd let you live. And I will.”

It smiles. Ish. Loosely interpreted and dark but definitely pleased. Some part of Chris’s brain that he didn’t know was there before lights up like the Fourth of July. “One doesn't kill one's pets, Christopher."


End file.
